


Bellowing Mastodons and Blighted Microfilms  –or– Jeeves and the Recruitment of Bertram

by godsdaisiechain (preux)



Category: James Bond - All Media Types, Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Competent Bertram Wooster, Espionage, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, bellowing!mastodon, cocktail!shakerphone, whangee!phone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preux/pseuds/godsdaisiechain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie (Agent 017)  has a few hangups on his first mission for the mysterious “D”… his Aunt Dahlia.  Luckily, Jeeves (Agent 015) is available to help prevent Bertie from being kidnapped by an unlikely Interpol agent. Implied cross with James Bond. </p><p>For a prompt at smallfandomsfest: Jeeves and Wooster: Jeeves and Wooster ARE - in fact - International Men of Mystery. That is why they travel. (Can cross with Bulldog Drummond, Mr. Wong, Charlie Chan (30's) I Spy(60's), James Bond or even Austin Powers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bellowing Mastodons and Blighted Microfilms  –or– Jeeves and the Recruitment of Bertram

**Author's Note:**

> NOT a part of the "Spyverse"

The willowy limbs flexed as Bertram jackknifed through the darkness like a nimble iguanadon in correct evening dress, deftly grabbing an ornamental railing, which crumbled to dust, embedding a number of rusty shards in the Wooster palm. Fortunately, the carefully trained reflexes kicked in and a leg hooked over a nearby flagpole, catapulting the slender form onto a projecting roof. It was the work of an instant to flip the corpus once more and use the elbows to prevent further slippage. Betram hoped that Jeeves would not cut up rough about the damage to the trousers of his favorite suit.

“Dash it!” hissed Bertram, shaking as many bits of rusted metal off as consistent with the simultaneous (if that is the word I want) needs to remain silent and not pitch forward onto the pavement below, not to mention preventing bleeding onto the correct evening dress, which would have been beyond the Jeevesian frozen limit. Fortunately, the microcamera used to obtain pictures of Roderick Spode’s dining companions, as scaly a crew of primeval creatures as Bertram had ever seen, had been ensconced into a secret pocket. The lengths to which Wooster B. would go in order to serve the aunts had never been surpassed.

It has often been said that Aunt Dahlia is a real sportsman and less apt than other aunts to bellow like a mastodon in a Mesozoic swamp, but one never knew that she was, in fact, also a real spy, using Milady’s Boudoir as a vehicle, if that is the proper word, to convey top secret information back and forth to various international constituencies and whatnot. Apparently, despite the troublesome things, the adventure of the cow creamer had sealed her opinion that Wooster was ready to begin to do a greater bit for king and country. “Now, nephew Bertie, is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party. It seems peaceful, but that is exactly when we need to be vigilant. You must keep this all secret, even from Jeeves.” She had rifled in a drawer for the copy of the issue in which I had written an article on what the well-dressed man was wearing. “Here it is. Your number will be 017, corresponding to the page number of your article.”

“And what, aged r, is your number?” Bertram was rewarded with an icy look. The aged r. had an arsenal of these l.-s; however the current specimen would have stunned a Yeti.

“I do not have a number, blot. I have a letter, “D.”

“D? As in Dahlia?” stammered the stunned nephew.

“D as in deadly as a demented dinosaur, young Bertie. And you must keep this secret from Jeeves or he will be eliminated. He is much too clever to be allowed to see anything.”

It was a worse threat than no more of Anatole’s dinners. It had to be admitted that Jeeves was really inconveniently clever at times, but the fellow had proven personally indispensible after he separated self from an engagement to Lady Florence Craye, a beautiful, and stern, pipperino of the first water. The grey matter reeled when one realized how narrow had been the escape from a life of affectionless servitude. So it was of the essence that he be kept safe from the spy wheeze. 

Jeeves had been in service to the young master for some years, and although he valeted to out-valet all the competition, or perhaps because of said out-v-ing, it had proven difficult to avoid discussing the espionage wheeze. I hoped the damage to the suit could be passed off as another policeman’s helmet.

“Sir?” a patient voice sounded beside the crumbled railing. “Do you require some assistance?” 

A feeling warmer than that of ordinary friendship suffused the young master. “Jeeves? How camest thou hither and all that?”

“I apologize, sir, for the liberty. I recognized you as you tumbled by the window of the smoking room intent on what, no doubt was meant to be clandestine activity.” Although the features were obscured by backlighting, much like a Clara Bow, but more handsome and with less lipstick, amusement was evident in his attitude.

“Ah, whatsit?” 

“You are currently suspended from one of the south rooves on the Junior Ganymede Club,” Jeeves explained. “You may effect an escape by lowering yourself onto the balcony below. It opens to one of the private rooms. If you delay several minutes before initiating this stratagem, I will meet you.”

“Carry on, Jeeves,” said Bertram, waiting until a gentle cough signaled the arrival of my man before somersaulting to the balcony below. Jeeves floated the door outward with the air of the keeper of a better-quality oracle. It was with him the work of a moment to straighten the splendid raiment with a whisk brush.

“Not the tie, Jeeves. It doesn’t matter just now.”

“There is no time at which ties do not matter, sir,” he insisted, settling the offending neckwear before taking the slender paw in both of his own to examine the damage. The visage remained solemn, as if he were the High Priest of one of the more refined and dignified pagan gods. A sort of current fizzled through the young master at the touch of his skin on mine. The eyes met and the lips parted.

He draped a clean handkerchief over the torn, dirty skin. “I will accompany you to the flat, sir.” Jeeves scouted the back stairs and herded the master to the spacious flat at Berkeley Mansions, one hand at the small of the slender back on the tricky bits. He ushered us up the service stairs and in through the back door of his lair. We formed a quorum in the kitchen where first aid was applied to the Wooster hand. 

Hardly had rinsing the affected area begun when the second best cocktail shaker emitted an irritating buzz like a stainless steel bee. Jeeves allowed an eyebrow to quirk in chagrin. “Pardon me, sir. Please remain silent.” He opened the shaker and spoke. “Yes, madam?” He flinched and Bertram started, sending handkerchief flying as the unmistakable tones of the aged r. sounded down the line, demanding satisfaction. “I acquired the objects requested. Yes. Self numbered locker. The usual drop off.”

Suddenly, Bertram recognized the tweezers that had materialized in the Jeevesian fingers as the ones that came in the standard spy first-aid kit. Something clicked in the Wooster brain. Jeeves had experienced very chummy relations with the aged r., even being sent to London to convince Anatole to return to service. And it had been quite obvious that Anatole must have been engaged in espionage during the adventure of the yachting trip. Certainly Uncle Tom was less like a mournful marine reptile with the best French cooking available, but that had been no reason to delay the Mediterranean voyage.

“Whatsit, Jeeves?” The slender knees folded, and Jeeves inserted an arm around the young master before he crumpled into a heap on the spotless linoleum. 

“Indeed, sir,” said Jeeves, tucking the other arm into place as Bertram attempted to get the pins into working trim. “Mrs. Travers forbade me to tell you my identity.”

“But what now, Jeeves?”

“As far as anyone else knows, you have kept your end of the bargain, sir.”

A pounding at the door sounded and a bellowing fit to manage hounds running In the next county sounded in the corridor. “Perhaps not, Jeeves. Rummy how quickly she got here.”

“Indeed, sir.” Bertram was deposited in a chair with a brandy and soda to mask the torn palm while Jeeves shimmered to the door to admit the aged r. 

“Jeeves!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

“A pleasure to see you as always, Mrs. Travers. I am performing my customary office of looking after Mr. Wooster’s comfort, madam.” Aunt D puffed like an angry fish. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

“Don’t ‘madam’ me, Jeeves. What have you been doing? Refreshments, my foot.”

Jeeves inclined his head respectfully. “May I offer you some tea and buttered toast?”

Aunt Dahlia’s nostrils flared like the fiercer sort of dragon. Jeeves blinked steadfastly and the aged r. wilted. “Was it that blasted shakerphone?” she said, finally. “I need the combination to that locker in Kings’ Cross.”

“I do not understand the question, madam,” said Jeeves.

“How long have you had appurtenances under the roof?” Bertram inquired. Jeeves gave one of his gentle coughs and evaporated. 

“We’ve been monitoring Sir Roderick Glossop and Roderick Spode, Bertie, and you were dashed useful as a plant. You’re quite gormless you know.” Bertram spluttered indignantly. “Now, you’ll have to do a few simple, pleasant, easy jobs for auntie or I’ll take Jeeves away and no more of Anatole’s suppers for you.”

At this juncture, Jeeves came up and expertly biffed the aged aunt on the bean with a rather sprightly little vase the young master had won at auction. Wooster caught the near relation in the good hand and Jeeves sifted out a microphone and a few pieces of microfilm.

“Madam, watch out,” Jeeves said. “I fear the bracket on the new vase has been loosened accidentally. Mr. Wooster, please be careful not to tread on the shards while I phone an ambulance.” I treaded on the microphone as indicated. Jeeves held up a finger to the lips and dislodged a microphone from the bottom of the whisky decanter, which he dropped into a glass full of soda. He nodded.

“I say, Jeeves, what?” As I eased Aunt Dahlia to the Chesterfield, her purse fell open.

“Indeed, sir. I fear our position has been compromised.” He pulled out a pistol and at first the innards did a nimble flip, but he tossed it to the good hand. “Perhaps you will allow me to see to your hand, sir? Then we should avail ourselves of the night train to Antibes.”

“But the aged r, Jeeves.”

He tore a plastic mask from a’s face with one hand, revealing the countenance of none other than Bobbie Wickham. With the other he flipped open a small wallet, to show me her Interpol identification card. “Miss Wickham has a strange sense of humor, sir.”

Jeeves removed the rusty splinters from the young master’s hand and applied ice to the Wickham cranium, then administered a tetanus vaccine. We smuggled Bobbie down the service stairs, bunged her into a passing ambulance and then dropped off the microcamera and hied it to France. 

Sadly, there was only one sleeper compartment available. Of course, Aunt D. chimed in on the whangee phone as soon as the train left the station. 

“Blot, what have you bungled now?”

“I, ah, rather, that is, aged r. There was a, er, unanticipated whatsit.”

“Did you drop off the package?”

“Ah, yes, as instructed.”

“Put 015 on.”

“015? What 015? How 015?” Jeeves coughed respectfully and took the whangee phone. He ‘yes-madamed’ and ‘no-madamed’ and forked it back over.

“You two had better lie low.” She rang off.

Jeeves wafted about as only he could in such close quarters. He had left the upper bunk strapped into its place. The y. m. reached out and took his hand before he could shimmer away. The current once again fizzled. “Sir?” his voice quivered like a thingummy.

“Am I overstepping my whatsit, Jeeves?” He paused and for a mo. Bertram feared he would peel off one of those blasted masks revealing the face of Mr. Stoker or some other equally unwelcome visage and arrest me for being an invert. But instead he huffed in relief, the way he did when I threw out the pink tie, and smiled.

“Not at all, sir,” he said. “In fact, your overture is not at all unwelcome.”

“Then perhaps you would take the other bunk, Jeeves?” Bertram suppressed a smile.

“If you wish it, sir,” he said soupily, but he kept hold of the slender paw. Wooster unfolded self from the bunk and oozed closer to his man. Jeeves, as ever, anticipated the master’s wants, bending forward to join the lips with a gentle sigh. He cupped the golden onion in the free hand. It seemed as if a million roman candles went off behind the cerulean eyelids.

“A topping performance, Jeeves,” I said, resting the bean against the broad shoulder as the breath heaved from the narrow breast. “But I would not inconvenience you.”

“By no means, sir. I have always regarded you as a bit of a dear,” he said, slipping the arm about the young master’s waist. “Will that be all?” 

“I think not, Jeeves. Perhaps the other bunk is a poor idea just yet. We might commune a while on matters of state.” I cupped the chin in a masterly paw and applied a pash to good purpose. A sense of gratification gratified as his pins wobbled under the onslaught and we sank down together onto the lower bunk. 

“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves.

“Do not discount your own contribution to the effort, my man,” said Wooster.

“Shall we carry on, then, sir?” Bertram could not form words, but Jeeves understood and carried on as desired.


End file.
